To the Ends of the World
by Anawey
Summary: When his granddaughter vanishes after the Wrathgate massacre, an elderly orc goes to Northrend to find her.
1. Prologue The Soft Goodbye

To the Ends of the Earth

x

x

When his granddaughter vanishes after the Wrathgate massacre, an elderly orc goes to Northrend to find her.

* * *

Disclaimer; Blizzard owns WoW, not me. Ahnka and Nar'grin, Torild, Xephyra, Skya, Brightcloud, and Aannu are my characters in the game. More may appear, but that wouldn't be until much later.

Prologue; The Soft Goodbye

* * *

The siege had been completely unexpected, but the resulting clamor for war was not. Much of Orgrimmar's population had lost someone, and they all wanted revenge. Revenge against the Scourge menace that had forever changed all their lives.

For Ahnka, it was more of a preventative measure. As she made her way to the city's gate, and Bloodfist Bay beyond, the image of her elderly grandfather, cornered by a hulking abomination, rose in her mind. The young rogue roughly pushed the memory away. She did not want to think how close she'd come to losing her only remaining family; didn't want to remember the healer telling her that the exertion and fear of the situation had nearly stopped his old heart.

She _wanted _to think about Scourge heads flying off their bodies as she swung her blades; wanted to know that the monsters would never threaten her own again.

Regardless of what she wanted, her hands tightened into fists as the memories came. She saw her grandfather grab an axe that was at least as old as he was, saw herself beg and order him not to fight. She relived his swift look of anger, before he pushed past her with surprising strength for his age. And worst, she watched again as the fear in his eyes suddenly turned to pain and he clutched at his chest as the abomination bore down on him. She remembered her fear as he had collapsed, and the protective anger which drove her to slaughter the abomination.

Again, Ahnka shook her head hard, closing her eyes and willing the memories to go away. They wouldn't, and a few tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

Suddenly, a pair of knotty, twisted hands were cupping her face, thumbs gently brushing away her tears.

"You cry, my child," a wavering voice whispered, filled with affection. "What troubles you?"

Ahnka opened her eyes to look down at her grandfather. Age had not been kind to Nar'grin. The elderly orc was stooped and small – thin as a rail. And yet, his eyes were still keenly bright and intelligent. He was a shaman, and his connection to the elements was likely what had kept him alive for so long, despite everything. His snowy hair was half-pulled back in a topknot, the rest of the thin mane allowed to fall over his shoulders. His beard was tied in a single braid. He wore several thick furs – at Ahnka's insistence; his circulation was poor, these days, and Nar'grin got cold easily, even in the warmth of Durotar – around his narrow shoulders, but, like most shaman, chose to go barefoot.

Looking at him now, knowing that he was still with her, Ahnka smiled.

"It is nothing, Grandfather," she assured in a deep voice. "Only memories. They will trouble me no more."

Nar'grin looked at her for a long moment, then smiled.

"Would that I had your enthusiasm, and strength to match," he said fondly. "You go to glory, whatever your end." His eyes suddenly grew sad, and he gripped her shoulders with a frantic desperation. "You stay safe, Ahnka." Nar'grin begged, looking worn. "You come back to me, my little Frostwolf."

Ahnka took his bony green hands in her own, and pressed her lips to his forehead, mindful of her tusks and his paper-thin skin. She pulled back, her expression loving and determined.

"I _will _come home, Grandfather," she promised. "No matter what, I will find some way to."

They embraced again, and then the captains were sounding the last call to board. Ahnka looked torn, but Nar'grin gripped her hands even as his eyes grew wet.

"Go, Ahnka," he rasped. "It is your destiny, my child."

"_I will come home_," Ahnka repeated, before turning and walking up the plank to the waiting ship.

For a long time, Ahnka watched the crowd on the shore, her eyes glued on the bent form of her grandfather. She was suddenly filled with dread, and the desire to stay; Nar'grin was old, and not well. If he had another attack like the one when the Scourge came, who would be there to help him? With her gone, he would be completely alone.

And, like a thunderbolt, Nar'grin's words from a week ago rang in her ears. She had told him, then, that she would go with the others to Northrend. Ahnka had expected him to protest, and though his face clearly showed worry, he had expressed support.

_One person, just one, my child, may mean the difference between victory, and defeat._

He'd still been bedridden at the time. What a _wonderful_ thing for him to experience in the first few days he was back on his feet; his only remaining family leaving to, quite possibly, certain death.

There really were only two ways for their attack on Northrend to go, Ahnka reflected; either complete victory, or utter failure. There would be no limping back to Orgrimmar because the Scourge was too strong. No, if the world's armies did not defeat the Lich King, they would die in the attempt.

Only when the docks of Bloodfist Bay had shrunk to dots on the horizon did Ahnka finally turn away. If she could help it, if she could be that one to tip the scales, the Scourge would fall, and she would be on the prow of the first ship home.

* * *

Chapter one done. The others will be much longer. Review, please!


	2. Where have You Gone?

Chapter Two time!

x

x

Where have You Gone?

* * *

The warmth of the sun was comforting on Nar'grin's back. His wrinkled face folded further as he smiled at the little plants fighting to grow in Durotar's harsh soil. The garden had been Ahnka's idea, and while she had always tended it well, she was powerless to make the bed better for her plants. Nar'grin, however, _could. _As a shaman, he could ask the spirits to help the little plants grow strong.

_Brother earth; these plants provide my granddaughter and I with needed food. Will you help them to grow, that they may serve a purpose?_

Nar'grin was not sure how one could _feel _a smile, but he did as the Spirit of Earth made its rumbling reply.

_**Every living thing must eat,** _the earth boomed. **_You and yours are no different. I will help these plants to grow._**

_Thank you, Brother, _Nar'grin thought, smiling again.

Often, Nar'grin would ask the other elements for their aid, but the sun was already shining warmly, the breeze gentle, and he had sought Water's aid only yesterday. Even though Orgrimmar was not the ideal place for vegetables and fruits to grow, water every other day was sufficient, with the help of the other elements.

Humming an old troll tune under his breath, Nar'grin wrapped his bony hands around the few scraggly weeds that had managed to grow amongst Ahnka's beloved garden, and ripped them up, setting them in a pile to be turned to compost later. Using clippers, he pruned the leaves of the wolf peach* plant, and inspected the fruits for ripeness. Some were turning orange already, but most were undersized and green yet, so he left them. Several of the berries Ahnka had planted _were_ ripe, and Nar'grin cheerfully popped one of the bright red clusters into his mouth, chewing and smiling at the pleasant taste. He picked the rest, piling them into a little woven basket he'd brought out with him.

A few of the other plants needed care, as well. Ahnka had planted several vegetables, as well as gourds and herbs, in the years before she'd gone away, and Nar'grin looked to them now. The gourds were starting to wrap around the tender stalk of a bean plant, so he carefully unwound the tendril, and set it on the earth so that it could grip the ground instead. Several of the bean pods were ready, and he plucked them, too, setting them in the basket with the berries. Even some of the fickle, night-blooming dragon fruit was ripe. By the time he was ready to go back inside, the basket was heavy with produce.

Nar'grin's old joints creaked and cracked as he stood, pulling himself up with his trusted staff. For a moment, he stared down at Ahnka's garden, missing his girl, then turned and shuffled back into the hut.

Inside, he set the basket of fruits and vegetables on the counter, and then arranged his receding hair into its usual half-tied back style. Most orcs wore their hair somewhat more elaborate, especially shamans - beads, braids, feathers and the like - but Nar'grin's hands were not that deft anymore. Indeed, it was getting difficult to twist his beard into a simple, single braid. Rheumatism had left its mark.

Every day he had gone down to Grommash Hold in the Valley of Strength to hear any word of the efforts in Northrend. Every day was a bit excessive, he knew, but his only family was up there, somewhere in that frozen hell, fighting monsters that should not be. He _had _to know of any change.

A twinge beneath his ribcage caused Nar'grin to suck in a breath. One gnarled hand rose, trembling, to press against his chest, and he dropped heavily into the nearest chair in the little kitchen. He grumbled to himself, annoyed at his weakness. Years ago, this would only have happened one time; he'd have already healed himself, but now, so worn down by his age, it was simply more than he could manage. He gasped a quiet plea for help to the elements, and took a long pull from the vial that Ahnka had insisted he carry. It was filled with the oil of some plant called hedgethorn**, and the healers had told Ahnka it would help her grandfather.

After a time, the pain faded; his chest loosened, and he could breathe again. His hands stopped shaking, and, leaning on his staff, Nar'grin left for the Hold.

* * *

By the time he made it to Grommash Hold - on the far side of Orgrimmar from the hut he shared with Ahnka - Nar'grin was out of breath and shaking. The breathlessness on its own was commonplace; he was old, and long walks winded him, but his Ahnka meant more. It was the shaking, coupled with a returning pressure beneath his sternum, that gave him pause. He would drink more of the medicine once he returned to the hut.

Almost a year it had been since his granddaughter had gone off to war. Almost a year of walking the road from his hut to the Valley of Strength. So much had happened, and Ahnka - _his __Ahnka - _had played a vital role in all of it. She had helped bring the tuskarr - whatever those were - and the taunka into the Horde, and she had gained the favor of the dragonflights.

She, like many others, had become a hero up in that distant land, and Nar'grin could not have been more proud of her. All the news thus far had been good, but he still worried. Ahnka had managed to write to him a handful of times, and her latest missive had regarded an impending attack on Icecrown Citadel itself, at Angrathar, the Wrathgate. He could only pray that the luck which had brought her safely through all the other trials Northrend had would be enough to get her through again.

As he neared the Hold, Nar'grin's ears, still keen despite advanced age, picked up shouting and wailing from the place. There was a throng of people, and they were all greatly agitated. Up close, the elderly shaman could see male orcs stamping their feet, females sobbing and clutching little ones. In front of the Hold's entrance stood the warchief, in his black-and-copper plate armor, looking grim.

Something was wrong. _Very _wrong.

"Citizens of Orgrimmar," the warchief was saying as Nar'grin approached, "this tragedy _must not _overcome us. Though many of our young, proud fighters were slain, we _cannot _succumb. In order to avenge their deaths, we must stand strong! If we fall to our despair, and let the Lich King triumph, then their deaths will be for nothing."

Nar'grin's heart began to race dangerously, and he felt a band of iron wrap around his chest.

_Please, ancestors, no... Let it not be her..._

The warchief continued on, speaking of the bravery of the Horde fighters who had gone to Northrend, all their accomplishments, and why the must not be forgotten. Nar'grin listened desperately, praying there would be something to suggest that Ahnka had been nowhere near whatever this horror had been.

"The betrayal of Grand Apothecary Putress _will __be punished!_" the armored leader boomed. "For his unforgivable actions, and for the coup within the Undercity, he will suffer. The fallen of the Wrathgate battle _will _be avenged!"

Nar'grin hardly heard the furious cheers that erupted. '_The fallen of the Wrathgate battle _will _be avenged!' _The _fallen... dead..._

Pain exploded in his chest, and he crumpled, his vision fading first to gray, then to black, as his breath left him in a rush. He saw the blurred face of an orcish healer for an instant, then everything fell away.

* * *

Sensation was slow in returning to him, at first. The very first thing was the pain. It was far less intense than it had been outside of Grommash Hold, but it still left him gasping. He tried to move, and it only increased.

His strangled groans must have been heard, for a young orc female was bending over him. For one shining, hopeful moment, he thought it might be Ahnka, come to take him to walk alongside the ancestors with her, but the hair was too light, the face too angular, and the muscles far smaller. This was a healer, not his little rogue.

"You must not speak," the healer murmured, pressing a cup of some liquid to his lips. His throat was dry as Durotar's deserts, and he drank greedily. He began to splutter, choking on the water, and the cup was removed. "Slowly," the healer admonished, before returning the cup to his thirsty mouth.

His mind was cloudy - hadn't he seen Ahnka, or thought he had, just a moment ago? _Was _he still in the hold, or had some kind soul brought him home to die? For that matter, was he even dying? Why would he be? Thoughts that had been clear a minute ago fogged over, and though he fought against it, a tide of darkness swept over him, and pulled Nar'grin under.

* * *

It was days before Nar'grin had the strength to stay awake for very long. The female healer from the first day continued to care for him. On occasion there were others, but she was constant.

He did not bother to learn her name. Under any other circumstances, he would have, but this was different. The fighters at the Wrathgate had been killed - betrayed by Putress and the Forsaken. Poisoned by a plague virus meant to kill living and undead alike. He would welcome death, now.

But death escaped him. For two weeks, Nar'grin slowly regained his strength. He supposed he had to see the proof, before he could accept it, because if there was even the _slightest chance _that she had survived...

"What happened at the Wrathgate?" he demanded one day as the female healer worked her magic on him.

The orc woman did not speak for a long moment. She looked as though she was not sure she wanted to say anything, but eventually, she sighed.

"I do not know everything," the female began. "The Forsaken Grand Apothecary, Putress, has turned traitor. He and his supporters in Northrend tricked many of the adventurers who went to join the fighting into helping him make the new plague... which he unleashed upon the Horde and Alliance armies at the Wrathgate..."

The female's face suddenly filled with pain, and Nar'grin realized that she must have lost someone to that disaster, as well.

"It is rumored that none survived..." she finished in a sad, quiet whisper.

Nar'grin grit his teeth. It could not be true - it _couldn't _be true! Somehow, someway, it could not be. He waited until the healer had left the room he was in - it was the city's infirmary, he'd learned - and then he closed his eyes. Marshalling his strength, Nar'grin opened himself to the Spirit of Life, and sent his thoughts outward, seeking for Ahnka's presence.

For a long while, he felt nothing. He could not connect to her portion of the Spirit of Life, and his world began to crumble again. And suddenly, there it was; a tiny flicker, like a single candle in the dark, but still present.

She was alive.

Ahnka was alive!

Drained, he sank back against the pillows. She was alive, yes, but she was in trouble. When he'd connected momentarily to her spirit, he'd felt fear, felt trapped. She was being held somewhere in Northrend; held by the Lich King's servants. She would need rescue.

"Ancestors, thank you," he muttered, smiling weakly. "Spirit of Life, my thanks..."

**_I am within all, brother. Rest now, know that I accept your gratitude, and I shall give you strength._**

Nodding obediently, Nar'grin closed his eyes, already feeling energy coursing through his limbs.

He was recovered and out of bed two days later. That very day, he sought, and was granted, an audience with the warchief.

The stone throne room in Grommash Hold was pleasantly cool - for most people. For Nar'grin, it was freezing, and he had to give a conscious effort to keep from shivering.

"_Thrall hall, _Warchief," he intoned, saluting and bowing low.

"Please, elder," the warchief said kindly. "I am given to understand you have had a troublesome ordeal of late. Be at ease. What is it you wish of me?"

Nar'grin hesitated only a moment.

"I would ask when an expedition to look for survivors of the Wrathgate will be sent to Northrend, Warchief," he requested. "And if so, I would be a part of that expedition."

The warchief regarded him sadly for a long moment.

"I wish I could assure you there would be such an expedition, elder," he sighed, "but reports from Angmar's Hammer insist that none could have survived. I understand it is hard to lose family, but I cannot endanger any more of my people in an effort to locate the dead."

Nar'grin shook his head.

"But, surely _someone _must have survived, Warchief" he insisted. "How else was word spread so quickly of the attempt's failure?"

"Scouts saw the dragons come," the warchief said sadly. "In order to keep our honored dead from rising as our enemies, they burned every body as they flew over. There was nothing left, elder. My apologies."

Nar'grin felt frustraition, more than despair. He knew what he'd found when he tapped into the Spirit of Life. Ahnka was alive in Northrend, held captive by the Scourge, and he _would _rescue her. Nevermind age, nevermind health; he would not suffer her imprisonment. She needed him, and he would go to her.

Leaving the Hold, Nar'grin took the path home quicker than usual. He was wheezing by the time he reached his hut, and he took only a minute to rest. Ahnka did not have forever. If he wanted to save her, he would have to get moving.

The warchief might not be sending more ships to examine what had happened at the Wrathgate, the elderly shaman knew full well that zeppelins left Orgrimmar for Warsong Hold and Vengeance Landing almost daily. He would buy passage on one of the zeppelins.

As soon as he had his breath back, Nar'grin went to his bedroom at the back of the hut, and packed a few items of clothing. He stuffed a couple large loaves of bread into his pack, and set out for the zeppelin towers. Under an arm, he clutched his cloak.

The zeppelins were atop the rise above the Drag, and the only way up to them was by the lifts. On occasion, the motion of the lifts made Nar'grin sick to his stomach, but he was so focused on his mission this time, that he did not notice.

As he stepped off one lift, a grunt acknowledged him.

"Where do you go, elder?" the younger male asked conversationally, offering Nar'grin his assistance on the stairs from the lift to the surface of the rise.

"To Northrend," Nar'grin replied, ignoring the shock on the other orc's face.

"With all do respect, elder," the grunt warned. "Northrend is a dangerous place. Even the Horde's best fighters have trouble surviving in that harsh land."

Nar'grin shook his head. "I must go," he explained. "My granddaughter is a survivor of the Wrathgate, held captive by the Scourge."

The grunt looked at him with such a startled, worried look on his face, as though he thought Nar'grin's mind had gone.

"There were no survivors of the Wrathgate, elder," the younger one said quietly. "The dragons..."

Nar'grin waved off the orc's now restraining hold.

"I know about the dragons, pup," he grunted. "But I am _going _to Northrend. My granddaughter lives, held prisoner by the Scourge, and I go to rescue her."

Before the stunned grunt could do anything to stop him, Nar'grin walked away, disappearing into the base of the southern zeppelin tower. Shaking his head at what he perceived as incredible senility, the grunt went back to his post.

Inside the zeppelin tower, Nar'grin took the stairs slowly. They were steep, and narrow, and his legs did not have the strength to take them quicker. Once he reached the top, he stopped to regain his breathing. When it had calmed from heaving gulps to quiet panting, he made his way to the Borean Tundra zeppelin platform, where the goblin zeppelin master stood.

"Yeah, whatcha want?" the goblin sneered, looking the old orc over. Nar'grin frowned.

"I need passage on the next zeppelin to Warsong hold," he requested, fishing in his pocket for his coins.

"Ten gold," the shady little critter demanded, holding out his hand expectantly. There was a nasty grin on his face, as though he knew the cost was too high, and that Nar'grin was likely unable to pay.

He was wrong.

The shaman calmly counted out the worth of ten gold from his few gold and handful of silver, and passed it over to the goblin. A horn blasted from their right, and the two turned to see a small, single-level zeppelin pull up to the platform.

"You're in luck, pal," the goblin grinned. "Here's the zeppelin now!"

Nar'grin's face took on a determined set, and without another word to the goblin, he moved onto the zeppelin, ready for Northrend; ready to find his granddaughter.

* * *

*; 'wolf peach' is an old European name for tomatoes, because of its similar look to deadly nightshade, which was believed to summon werewolves. I thought this name might fit with the orc culture better than 'tomato,' considering the close relationship orcs tend to have with wolves.

**; hedgethorn is another name for hawthorn. I decided to go with hedgethorn because it seemed to fit a bit better, as the plant is described as a thorny hedge. It is a herb that really helps the heart and blood circulation.

x

x

And that's it for this chapter. Hope everyone liked it. Review, please!


	3. Over the Sea to Skye

Chapter 3!

Thanks, everyone who reviewed so far. I'm very glad you all like this. It's the first time I've ever tried a Warcraft story, and I've only been into the game for eight months, so I'm still relatively new to the fandom. Thanks again for the positive response, guys, and here's the next chapter for you!

x

x

Over the Sea to Skye

* * *

Nar'grin had been mistaken about the zeppelin only having one level. The door to the lower hold was situated in the rear of the ship, and so he had missed it. Now that he knew it was there, the elderly shaman made his way down to find a quiet corner for himself. The journey would take the rest of the day, through the night, and into tomorrow; Nar'grin was glad there would be a place to sleep - the hardness of the wood would wreak havoc on his old back, but it was worth it. _Ahnka _was worth it.

Gripping the rail, he made his way carefully down the steep, narrow steps - _Just like the ones in the tower; much more of this, and my knees will never be the same... - _into the hold. He was not alone. The upper deck had been filled with people, mostly orcs, trolls and tauren, and the lower deck was just as bad. There really was only one corner not crowded beyond his comfort zone, and so Nar'grin shuffled over. He settled stiffly not far from a young troll female, with purple hair tied in multiple braids.

The troll was absently patting a raptor on the head. That, and the bow on her back marked the female a hunter. Nar'grin took little notice of her, but she acknowledged his presence with a smile, and warm words.

"Hello, mon," she beamed. Then her expression became concerned as she realized Nar'grin's age. "Ya goin' to a dangerous place, elder."

Nar'grin glanced at her, then down at his hands. Around one wrist was the bone bracelet Ahnka had made for him when she was younger. It had been a gift, over Winterveil one year. She had carved a wolf's head charm - for their clan, the Frostwolf - and several round beads, from bone, and strung them together on a cord of macrame. Nar'grin had treasured it ever since.

"I must go," he replied. "And nevermind the dangers."

"Ya be a brave soul, elder," the troll said admiringly, extending a three-fingered hand. "My name be Aannu. Who you be?"

"Nar'grin," Nar'grin replied, shaking the offered hand. "It may be that I am old to be on my way to Northrend, but you are awfully young..." He did not say it, but in his mind he thought, _As is my poor Ahnka..._

The troll bristled slightly.

"I be every bit ready," she grumbled. "My trainer say so. Just because I be a hunter, and I young, dat don' mean I not ready to go an' fight for my people."

Nar'grin nodded.

"I have no doubt of it, young Aannu. But you are little more than a girl." He thumped a shriveled fist against the wood of the air ship. "Why they send the children to fight, I will never know..." the orc sighed, hanging his head.

Aannu growled, but said nothing. Nar'grin was left alone for a time, and after a while, his bones began to protest sitting for so long. Using his staff to pull himself upright, he walked over to the little observation deck, and looked up. The deck stuck out from the side of the air ship, and out here, over the ocean, he could see the stars more clearly than ever.

Ahead, almost straight ahead, and low on the horizon, hung one very bright star. The Northern Star. It was to this star that Nar'grin looked, his mind on his mission, and the girl he loved.

Ahnka had always been a fighter. She'd have made a fine warrior, if not for her penchant for sneaking up on people. How many times, as a small child, had she pounced on him from some hidden corner in their hut? She had been so small in those days. Now, she stood head-and-shoulders over him.

Her parents had been captured by slavers when Ahnka was still a tiny infant. Thank the ancestors Nar'grin had been watching her at the time, or the little one likely would have shared their fate. He was not sure how they had come there, but when Thrall had stormed Durnholde Keep, Nar'grin had found evidence of their presence. With little Ahnka strapped to his chest, he had searched the entire keep, and finally found someone who knew of his son and his mate.

It was a human, a little boy who had known them as his family's personal slaves. The boy had trembled and wailed in the arms of an equally frightened woman. Nar'grin had given his word not to harm them, that his intent was peaceful, and eventually, they calmed.

The mother would not speak, her eyes filled with venom, but the boy had described Nar'grin's son exactly. Then the boy said the words that broke Nar'grin's heart; both had died when influenza had hit the keep.

So Ahnka had become his responsibility, and he had taken it on gladly. He already adored the baby, and his only regret was that her parents were not here to see what she'd become.

She was his pride and joy. Ahnka always blushed when he told her so, but it was true. She had not been old enough to do much when the threat of Illidan and Kaelthas had loomed over the world, but she had done her part bravely. And when the Lich King's forces had attacked Orgrimmar, without a second thought, she had thrown herself into the battle, until Nar'grin had fallen. And after, rather than hide in the infirmary with the wounded, she had rushed back out to defend the place, along with a handful of others who were either not seriously wounded, or happened to be in the area. To this day, Nar'grin thanked the Spirits that the fighting had been the thinnest there.

She had earned honor for herself, her family, her clan, and all the Horde at nearly every turn from the moment she'd come of age. She was his heart and his strength, and he could not afford to lose her.

In the silence of the night, Nar'grin centered himself, and reached down into the Spirit of Life within him, and sent his consciousness out, searching for Ahnka's spirit. He found her, still in Northrend - in Icecrown Citadel itself - and still trapped. She was still frightened, but now she was angry, too. Angry, and outraged. Nar'grin had to smile. Only _she _would have the courage to get _mad _at her undead captors.

The effort had exhausted him, however, and he stumbled back, hitting the side of the zeppelin, and sinking down until he sat on the platform. He was wheezing and dizzy, but comforted, knowing that Ahnka was still alive.

"Be safe, my child," he sighed, thin, trembling fingers ghosting over the carved bone bracelet with its wolf's head charm. "I _will_ find you."

* * *

Nar'grin slept poorly that night. As he suspected, the hard surface of the wood, even tempered by his sleeping roll, had destroyed him. The coldness of the air out over the ocean made his joints ache, and even the warmth of his sleeping furs had not helped. By morning, he was stiff and cold, and moving caused his back to crackle painfully. Shivering, he pulled his cloak around his shoulders, glad for the warmth of the fur lining.

The troll, Aannu, had spent the night on a bench not far from Nar'grin's spot, and she smiled at him in greeting.

"Mornin' mon," she offered. "Ya sleep well?"

Nar'grin grumbled quietly, not having the energy to glare at her.

"I got somet'in dat might help ya," Aannu said softly, digging haphazardly through a bag. Nar'grin watched as a few smaller items missed the bench she tried to place them on and rolled across the floor. He picked them up and set them beside her. Soon, she came up with a small bottle of a thick, greenish fluid, and held it out for him.

"It soothes de muscles, elder," she explained, smiling broadly around her tusks as Nar'grin took the potion. "Careful of da taste, mon. It'd knock a Barrens buzzard off a kodo carcass."

Nar'grin took an experimental sniff, and cringed. Steeling himself, he threw back the contents in one quick gulp. It was a nasty, vicious concoction, with the most vile taste, but almost instantly, he began to feel the change. His lower back loosened considerably, and the aching stiffness receded from his joints a little.

"Thank you, Aannu," Nar'grin sighed leaning back against the wall. He pulled the edges of his cloak over his legs, and held it closed against the frigid northern ocean air.

"You welcome, mon," Aannu replied. "I be goin' ta meet my mudda up here. She be fightin' in Icecrown. Can I ask why _you_ up here, elder Nar'grin?"

Nar'grin looked down at the wolf bracelet again, and rested his fingertips on the center charm, drawing in a breath.

_Ancestors, give me the strength I will need for this mission..._

"My granddaughter was at the Wrathgate," he said quietly. "She was taken captive by the Lich King."

Aannu's eyes widened, then grew sad and sympathetic.

"Ya sure she was taken, mon?" she whispered. "I heard 'bout dat battle. Dey say no one survived..."

Nar'grin shook his head.

"I can feel her, young one," he insisted softly. "Twice, I have searched, and twice I have found, my granddaughter. Ahnka lives, and I _must _rescue her."

"Den mebbe I go wit' you?" Aannu suggested tentatively. "It be sorta on my way, de Citadel. Dat be were de Lich King have her, ya?"

Nar'grin nodded.

"I believe so."

Aannu grinned.

"Good. Nort'rend ain't no place for _anybody _to be wanderin' alone, ya know? If ya don' mind, I come wit' ya til we get you granddaughter, den I go find mumma?"

Nar'grin paused for a moment to think. While he wanted to hurry straight to Ahnka, the young troll was right. If he went all alone, there was the very strong possibility that he would not make it. He was old, and ill. Likely, he would never even get near the Citadel on his own.

"Alright, Aannu," he agreed. "We shall travel together."

A huge grin split the young hunter's face.

"Perfect, mon," she chirped. "I make you de best raptor egg omelet you ever see!"

Nar'grin chuckled at Aannu's enthusiasm. She was so young - younger than Ahnka, now that he looked more closely at her. It was the natural fierceness of trolls that made them look older than their years. The same effect was had on orcs, though Nar'grin certainly was not younger than he appeared. At ninety-four summers, his had been a long life. Aannu could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen summers. Three younger than Ahnka.

But for all her seemingly childish eagerness, Aannu had about her a certain level of discipline and strength. And her raptor looked particularly large and powerful. Surely she would be a good companion to have in such a dangerous land.

* * *

Nar'grin had never known a docking to take so _long. _The mighty iron and stone of Warsong Hold had surely come into view hours ago. The waiting for the call to disembark was driving him mad. Ahnka needed him, and he had to wait for _supply crates. _The passengers on the zeppelin had to wait until the ship was properly attached to the landing platform, and the supply crates unloaded.

Never had Nar'grin so hated waiting, and he had always been a patient orc; patience was a necessary part of being a shaman. But when it came to his granddaughter's safety, he could not get moving quickly enough.

"Dey takin' _so long,_" Aannu groaned. She was seated on a bench, leaning against the side of the air ship. Nar'grin stopped pacing just long enough to take notice of the similar track their thoughts were following. Absently, he fingered the bracelet Ahnka had made him, its grainy surface providing him a little comfort.

Another part of his impatience to get moving was the cold. It mattered far less, certainly, than Ahnka's safety, but he was absolutely freezing, and Aannu had only had the one little bottle of muscle relaxant. Every joint in his aged body ached, deeply painful. His knees were cracking and his fingers stiff. Even the thick hide cloak, with its soft, warm lining of bear fur, was not quite enough. How his dear Ahnka had managed to survive this, he did not know.

At last, the order to disembark the passengers came around, and Nar'grin and Aannu went up the stairs, and onto the upper deck. There was a plank that created a bridge over the narrow gap between the side of the zeppelin and the landing platform. It was too narrow, even for _his _wasted bag of bones to fit through, but Nar'grin still did not relish the idea of a fall. It wouldn't kill him, but it very well _could _break something. He was too old for that, and in far too much of a hurry. Breaking a leg, or his hip, now, would only slow him down.

The zeppelin tower here was much the same as the one in Orgrimmar, but the stairs were wider - wide enough for the young huntress, Aannu, to walk beside Nar'grin, and offer her support should he need it. But the old orc made it to the ground with his companion, and they stepped out into Warsong Hold.

It was a very different place from Orgrimmar - very stark, and frightening. It harkened back too much to the days when the Burning Legion had control of the orcs, when Gul Dan was the warchief. Nar'grin had known the orc called Garrosh's father, Grom, and he knew Grom's son. Both had their hearts in the right place, but Grom had met disaster and an early end. How long before the younger Hellscream met the same fate?

The Hold itself was set in a quarry. Nar'grin made to head out of the quarry, up the path to his left, but a strong hand restrained him.

"Careful, old one," a voice warned. "There are Nerubians everywhere. You've had a long journey; come inside where there is safety."

The orc who had restrained him and spoken was tall, and thickly muscled with reddish-brown skin. It was Garrosh Hellscream, the one who had so pushed for the Horde to go to war in the first place.

An animalistic snarling began behind them, and Garrosh turned, swinging his axes as he did so. The movement neatly severed the over-sized insect instantly. Nar'grin looked at Aannu; her mouth was open in horror, and if he wasn't so tired after the journey here, he'd have used his staff to close it. As it was, the staff was all that kept him standing.

"Inside, quickly," the younger Hellscream growled. "Before another attacks."

Nar'grin and Aannu followed the young orc down into Warsong Hold. Everywhere, off-duty guards and merchants milled about. There was an entire section of the Hold dedicated to engineers, and another for blacksmiths. Hellscream left them with the innkeeper, a Forsaken man named Williamson, and excused himself to get back to his duties.

"If you wish it," the orc offered, "I would be glad to arrange you a tour of the place."

Nar'grin shook his head.

"I thank you for the offer," he sighed. "But I should much rather rest." Hellscream nodded his understanding, and left them.

Williamson was a frightful-looking thing; his hair was done up in spikes over his jaundice-colored head, and his eyes were sunk deep beneath an 'x' of iron meant to keep his face together. Aannu looked nervously at Nar'grin, and the old shaman gripped her hand in reassurance. The innkeeper led them back to the sleeping quarters, which was really just a large, open space with a bunch of hammocks strung up. Nar'grin felt his back begin to ache just looking at them.

"We don't get many travelers here," Williamson hissed, his voice a breath whisper. The sound seemed to unnerve Aannu. "Mostly warriors; young-bloods sent from Orgrimmar - soldiers used to a hard life and ready to fight."

It was clearly not meant as an apology, and Nar'grin frowned after the Forsaken as he wandered away. Too brusque. _And, _a dark voice in the back of his head muttered grimly, _too Forsaken. _He knew they could not all be held accountable for the coup in the Undercity, just as not all orcs were responsible for the horrors the Burning Legion had forced so many of them to commit, but how was Nar'grin to know whose side the unsettling Williamson was really on?

Now that he was stationary, the stresses of the last couple of days made itself known. The long journey, last night's rough sleep and draining act of tapping into the Spirit of life, along with his continuous worry for Ahnka, was taking its toll. It had been many years since he'd had this much excercise, and the exertion was wearing on him. His exhaustion manifested in shaking limbs and a deep, almost painful, pressure in his chest.

Suddenly dizzy, he sat heavily on the floor, setting his staff aside and digging through his bag with trembling hands. He came up with a large bottle of the hedgethorn oil. While this container usually stayed in the kitchen back at the hut, the smaller vial Nar'grin always carried was not enough for this journey; he'd known it would not be even before he left Orgrimmar. Uncorking it, he threw down a large gulp, then leaned forward, letting his head hang.

"Nar'grin?"

Nar'grin slowly raised heavy eyes to regard Aannu. She was crouched before him, reaching for him in concern. He offered a weak smile of reassurance.

"I'm alright, young one," he sighed. "I am old, and the venture here has worn me out, that is all."

Aannu gazed at him dubiously.

"Ya sure 'bout dat, mon?" the younger troll persisted. "Ya don' look well; gone pale. Last I checked, ya gotta be alive to rescue somebody."

Nar'grin nodded tiredly, one corner of his lips twitching slightly in a wry grin.

* * *

Chapter three! It took me a while to get to this point. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to keep updating so quickly. If I could get mine back from our computer friend, then I'd be sure I could. As it stands, these have just been a productive few days. I have so much other stuff I should be updating...

*whole cast of angry character spanning from Les Mis to Last Airbender and beyond glare from the other side of the room*

Heh...

Review, please!


	4. Angels from the Realm of Glory

Chapter 4! Man, this story is going quick. I'm so happy with it so far.

x

x

Angels from the Realm of Glory

* * *

"I'm not hungry, Aannu," he sighed, pulling himself up with his staff to sit in the hammock.

Aannu scanned his form, her eyes dark with concern.

"You sure, mon?" she pressed. "You lookin' pale. Wan' me to bring you somet'in back?"

Nar'grin shook his head.

"You go, young one," he sighed. "I may sleep."

"Ya don' look well…" the troll worried.

"Aannu, _I'm alright,_" the elderly orc insisted. "I feel fine. I am just tired."

Aannu sighed, and Nar'grin lay back, closing his eyes. After a moment, he heard her leave.

Though he had told Aannu he was alright, it was not entirely true. He felt old, and so, so tired. Everything, especially his chest, felt heavy, and he was having difficulty keeping his breath. Another pull from the bottle of hedgethorn was enough to ease his thumping heart, but he was still exhausted. As he'd feared, lying in the hammock for any length of time was killing his back. If he'd had the energy, he'd have gotten up and explored the Hold, but he simply didn't feel up to it.

Possibly, part of it was his concern for Ahnka - his fear that he would not get to her in time bordered upon depression, almost. And the fact that he knew he was in no state to get moving _now _did not help matters in the least. If he was younger, he would already be halfway to Dragonblight, but he was no longer able to move so quickly.

Snarling quietly, Nar'grin tried to hold back tears. He was terrified for his girl, and furious that he was too _weak _to help her. Ancestors help him, he could not even be sure if she lived; he was not strong enough for another dip into the Spirit of Life - it took more effort than he could give again without serious consequences. Nar'grin knew it would be too much; it wouldn't kill him, but it would likely be very close, and Ahnka didn't have that much time. He would have to wait before trying to reach her again.

His stomach grumbling, Nar'grin reached over the side of the hammock for his pack. He pulled out one of the loaves of bread, and a dragonfruit he'd packed. The dragonfruit almost started his tears again, as he remembered how intently Ahnka had cared for the tree the fruit had come from. Sitting up carefully (the hammock rocked too easily, and too much, for Nar'grin's comfort), he crossed his legs, and bit into the loaf of bread.

It was a bit harder than it had been when he packed it, but the inside was still soft and light. He ate his fill of the bread, and turned to the dragonfruit. Its taste was sweet, and he savored the mouthful. Eating this fruit now, he realized he'd forgotten to find someone to care for the garden in his absence; that old widow who lived nearby, she could have been counted on, if only he'd thought to ask. As it stood, because of his single-minded desire to play the gallant hero, Ahnka would probably lose her beloved garden.

"Are you not hungry, elder?"

The voice that spoke was strange, echo-y, like the Forsakens', but louder, and almost as though there was a second voice speaking in unison with the first. Nar'grin turned to behold a blood elf gazing steadily at him, her head cocked to one side.

She was as pale as the clump of snow that clung to the hem of her cloak. Her hair was snowy white, as was her skin. Indeed, the only color she had was her eyes; they glowed a dim, light blue. A deathknight.

For an instant, Nargrin knew terror. Deathknights were servants of the Lich King; minions of the monster who had taken his baby from him. But this one... Nar'grin knew of the Battle for Light's Hope, and of the contingent of deathknights under Highlord Darion Mograine, who had defected, and rejoined the factions they'd been a part of in life. Clearly, here was one of those folk.

She was no threat, no danger, in that case, and yet, Nar'grin found he still could not accept her. Her very presence radiated cold, and she reminded him pointedly of Ahnka's predicament, and how much he longed to cut a swath through all the Scourge wretches who had done her harm.

"No," he replied flatly, shaking his head.

"It is likely not my place," the deathknight said in her echoing voice, "but do you need a healer? You look unwell."

Nar'grin frowned, and steadily looked away, touching the bear bracelet.

"I am only tired from a long journey," he said curtly, his eyes narrowing.

The deathknight was silent for a time, and Nar'grin began to hope she would give up and leave him in peace.

"What is your name?"

So much for hoping.

For a long moment, Nar'grin simply glared at her. He did not want to tell her anything. Undead abominations like her had taken his granddaughter - his _only _family - captive, and were doing ancestors only knew what to her at the very moment. They had attacked his home city, brought age to Ahnka's eyes prematurely. What could a piece of that kind of monstrosity accomplish but evil?

But he had been raised not to be rude.

"Nar'grin," he muttered.

"Good," the deathknight grinned. "I am Xephyra. I was sent to find you by a troll - Aannu."

Nar'grin tensed. If this creature was actually part of the Scourge, here in disguise, that would mean she'd hurt the young huntress. The dear child did not deserve such an end. As discretely as he could, Nar'grin reached for the staff leaning against the wall beside his hammock. He had been unable to protect Ahnka, but he _would not _let Aannu fall into their Scourge clutches.

Xephyra seemed to sense his frostiness, and she bristled. Nar'grin thought she had quite a nerve, to get offended by his dislike of her.

"She told me you are looking for someone."

Nar'grin jolted, mentally cursing. _Why _would Aannu tell someone - especially a former servant of the Lich King - anything about him? It was hardly her business to begin with.

"My granddaughter," the elderly shaman bit out. He refused to give her any more details.

The deathknight sighed.

"Nar'grin! Elder!"

_Thank the ancestors... _Nar'grin thought, feeling his body relax far more than he'd thought it would. At least this brave - if foolish - girl had not come to harm. Aannu dropped fluidly to the floor, cross-legged, by the hammock. She had the remains of a drumstick from some animal in one hand, and a large grin on her face. Another elf sat beside her, in a manner vaguely similar to Aannu's. She had black hair, and ivory-fair skin. The set of her eyes seemed familiar; the high cheek bones, and the braid over her shoulder...

"I know you..." he murmured.

"Torild Dawnsinger," the dark-haired elf clarified gently. Nar'grin nodded in recognition - Torild was one of the few blood elves who lived in Orgrimmar; Nar'grin knew her face well, she lived so close to his hut. "If my sister has upset you, I can assure you she is on _our _side... Her will is her own once more, and she can be trusted."

"Torild," the colorless elf said firmly. "I _will not _apologize for what I've done. Old one, I am just as much a victim as you. My will was _ripped _out of me. I could no more think 'no,' than a dwarf could grow tall. I am sorry that these horrors were committed, but I _won't _apologize for my body being used to perpetrated them."

Nar'grin nodded shortly, and looked down at his bracelet.

Aannu looked between the old orc and the two elven sisters. She pouted slightly, hoping this coldness could be remedied.

"Torild says dey know Ahnka," the troll coaxed, silently begging Nar'grin to take the bait.

Nar'grin froze, then looked sharply up at the elves.

"It is true, elder Nar'grin," Torild agreed. Her expression turned even graver. "Ahnka, Xephyra, and I were just three of the many who were tricked into helping Putress make the plague that was used at the Wrathgate. In the process, somehow, we became immune to it - to an extent."

"'_Many_' of you were reinforced against it?" Nar'grin echoed. Xephyra nodded.

"At least twenty of the Horde's forces, and a couple of Alliance folk," she recounted. She looked away with disgust and hatred. "Putress played us like harp strings..."

Torild put a hand on her shoulder.

"What happened to her?" Nar'grin demanded, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the hammock so tightly his knuckles paled. Torild hung her head.

"We do not know. Xephyra and I both lost track of her in the fighting. I am sorry."

"We were chased afterward," Xephyra added. "We could not have looked for her if we'd wanted to."

Nar'grin's heart fell. He _hated _being cooped up here, waiting. It had not been a day, but time dragged so slowly it might have been weeks. It was infuriating, and adding a deathknight to the mix only frustrated him further. But Aannu was right; neither orc nor troll knew anything about the lay of the land here. Alone, they would be lost. And Torild's news had sent his hopes soaring.

If there had been at least twenty people who were somewhat immune to the effects of the newest plague, then there _were _survivors. That news must have been only weeks behind the original report that none had lived. It was also likely that most of those folk had died - if not in the fighting, or when the plague was dropped, then when the dragons came - but it still gave him better hope for his girl. If, somehow, she had been unaffected by the plague, she could be alright. Nar'grin knew she could not be completely unharmed – she was being held captive by monsters – but at least she was not suffering from the plague on top of the horrors of torture.

"If you would have us," Torild offered with a kind smile, "Xephyra and I could take you to Icecrown Citadel. We know the way… too well.."

Nar'grin nodded. "We need a guide," he sighed. "And as no other is forthcoming…" He spread his hands.

Torild beamed, and Xephyra nodded.

"Whenever you are ready to leave, my friends," the darker elf said, bowing her head in respect. Xephyra simply looked away.

"Sometime in de mornin', den?" Aannu asked, twisting her neck to look at Nar'grin upside down. "Afta breakfast, yah?"

Nar'grin nodded.

"First thing after breakfast."

"Then sleep, now, friends," Torild smiled. "We will meet you at breakfast in the morning. Goodnight."

Aannu bid them good night, too, but Nar'grin did not respond. He dropped back in the hammock, drained, his eyes closed tightly.

Ahnka was not in as much pain as he'd thought – not suffering as much as he'd feared. She was not fighting against torture _and _that plague. What had made her immune, he did not know, but he was thankful for it.

The day had exhausted him, but he was so elated. They had a guide, now, to lead them into Dragonblight, and Icecrown beyond. Ahnka's chances were better than he'd feared. His hope of seeing her safe again in her garden in Orgrimmar solidified a bit.

For the first time in his life, Nar'grin was glad to know a deathknight. Xephyra and Torild could bring them straight to Icecrown Citadel, and Ahnka, faster than he and Aannu would be able to get there on their own. All this nightmare would be over that much sooner, now.

* * *

Nar'grin woke feeling only marginally less sore than he had yesterday. The hammock had not effected his back as badly as the wooden floor of the zeppelin had, but it was still not as soft as his sleeping furs back home.

It was difficult to determine the time inside Warsong Hold; no natural light penetrated this far into the fortress. What decided him that it must be time for breakfast was the smell of roasting meat. In the hammock behind him, Aannu snuffled in her sleep, shifting to her side and sniffing. The smells woke her, and she blinked blankly at Nar'grin.

The old orc had to chuckle. Aannu's hair was an utter mess, and she looked rumpled. The sleepy smile on her face reminded him too keenly of Ahnka, and he felt a knife stab his soul.

"Mornin', mon," Aannu murmured, rubbing at her eyes. She shook her head, purple hair flying around her. She was awake fully, now, and bounced from the hammock to her feet. Nar'grin shook his head, and used his staff to pull himself up. He'd slept better than he had since Ahnka had left Orgrimmar, but he was still stiff. He stretched backward, one hand pressed into his lower back. Several cracking and popping sounds made Aannu cringe as she stood beside him.

"Good morning," Nar'grin replied hoarsely. He cleared his throat, and spoke again. "Let's go..." With Aannu following him, Nar'grin shuffled forward, following the smells of meat and fresh bread.

"We gonna get on de road after, you said?" Aannu asked as they walked. The orc shaman nodded.

"Yes. I do not wish to waste any time, Aannu." In a softer voice, more to himself than to the young troll, he added, "Only the ancestors know what those wretches are doing to her..."

Though they sickened him, Nar'grin kept the thoughts of Ahnka's captivity in his mind; they made him move quicker, gave him an extra determination to get to her sooner. Remembering how she needed him gave him the strength to hurry forward in his mission.

The dinning area was just another area of the Hold; a great, open room, where the races of the Horde sat around on the floor, eating from pewter crockery, or whatever metal the Hold's blacksmiths had made the plates and cutlery from.

Nar'grin's stomach growled annoyingly, and he shuffled over to where the cooks were dishing out the food. It was a thick, meaty stew, and under normal circumstances, the old shaman would have been more than happy to have it. But these were not normal circumstances, and he felt almost sick; Ahnka, more than likely, was starving, cold and alone in a dungeon in Icecrown Citadel.

A mug of some steaming liquid was pressed into his hands, and Nar'grin found himself looking at a very submissive-seeming Forsaken woman.

"It is cold here," she said in a rasping voice. "You looked like you could use something warm and restoring..."

She looked away from him, clearly thinking she had overstepped her place, and expected him to be angry with her. He was not, but he could understand why she would be so nervous; the betrayal of Putress at the Wrathgate.

"Shut your traitorous mouth, worm-fodder," a large orc snapped. The Forsaken, a small, thin figure, tensed and looked down.

"My apologies..." she murmured.

Nar'grin could see from her demeanor that she could not have been one of the Forsaken who had joined with Putress; not to mention the fact that she was _here, _and no one was trying to kill her. Glaring momentarily at the other orc (he noticed with some satisfaction that Aannu visibly bared her teeth at him), he turned back to the Forsaken woman with a smile.

"Thank you," he said gently. "What is your name?"

"Skya," the woman sighed, her eyes flicking back to the orc behind her. "I really must get back to my post, now."

Nar'grin shook his head.

"Everyone here is fed; I cannot imagine that many more will come. Why not come and eat with my friends and I?"

Skya seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes flicking back toward the orc glaring askance at them. At length, she nodded, and moved to follow the orc and troll.

Behind them, the orc cook snarled. He stormed forward, and snatched Skya's arm. Though she froze, for an instant, fury flashed in her yellow eyes.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, tugging hard enough to make her stumble. Aannu was suddenly between them, growling and baring her tusks - large for a female troll.

"Wit' us," she hissed. "You got a problem wit' dat, mebbe I let you take it up wit' my fist?"

The cook's lips drew back, and he rumbled in harsh orcish. Nar'grin watched as Aannu visibly bristled, and, in the interest of avoiding confrontation, put a restraining hand on the troll's shoulder.

"Enough, Aannu," he whispered. Turning to the younger orc male, he added; "Your treatment of this woman is _disgraceful. _She has done _nothing. _Let _go _of her."

Nar'grin might have been old, small, and thin as a rail, but the look on his face caused the orc cook to take a step back. His eyes narrowed in anger, but he said no more, snarling as he turned back to the large pot of stew.

Once the other orc had turned away, Nar'grin turned another gentle smile to Skya.

"Come along," he said gently, turning around to look for the two blood elves.

Torild and Xephyra were seated together, off to one side of the room, and when she saw them, Torild waved, standing and smiling as they approached. On the floor between her and her sister a map was spread out.

"This is Skya," Nar'grin introduced. "She will eat with us. Skya, these are our friends, Torild and Xephyra."

"I be Aannu, by de way," Aannu smiled, dropping fluidly to the floor. Nar'grin settled stiffly beside her, patting the ground next to himself and watching as Skya crouched gingerly.

As they ate, Torild turned to the map.

"Our route will not be the easiest," she warned. "We can take the main road, but only until this delta, here. The Nerubians hold the road around Icemist Village; Azjol'Nerub is literally right beneath it. Once we reach Angmar's hammer, we should be safe."

Here, Xephyra shook her head, and pointed to a spot on the map by a depiction of a volcano.

"Moonrest Gardens and Star's Rest are too close here. I know your feelings about the Alliance, but they _cannot _be trusted, Torild. We'll have to go to Wyrmrest Temple, and fly to the Argent Vanguard from there."

Torild frowned for a long moment.

"We cannot go to the Argent Vanguard on foot; the Obsidian Dragonshrine is not a place i would lightly trust," she muttered, "and flying will run us right into the frost wyrms. If we cut across the Broken Front from Wyrmrest, we will have to fight, even in the air. Going through the mountains is out of the question; the Scourge is too plentiful there, and the vrykul are everywhere."

Nar'grin straightened, his face taking on a determined, stubborn expression.

"I did not come here expecting an easy time," he said. "If it will get me there the sooner, I would fight off black dragons, to reach the Citadel. Whatever must be done, let it."

Skya looked at him for a moment in confusion.

"What is there for you in Icecrown Citadel?" she murmured, stunned by the frail old orc's vehement words. Nar'grin glanced at her with a cold anger that was not directed at her.

"My granddaughter," her growled, looking back to Torild and Xephyra. "When will you two be ready to depart? I am packed, and Aannu, I would assume, is ready as well."

For the first time, Xephyra smiled. A lust for revenge glittered in the back of her glowing blue eyes.

"As soon as you are ready."

* * *

And that's the chapter! Things might slow down now, because I'm back in school, and my weekends are taken up with my job. I hope to keep up with this relatively regularly, but this might go the way of my other stories; updated infrequently because of time... In any case, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Review, please!


	5. Siuil A Run (Walk My Love)

I really am sorry for taking so long to get this chapter up. For the longest time, I just couldn't think of anything, and life got in the way. I've been taking early childhood education courses at college, and the workload kinda smacked me in the face unexpectedly, not to mention until recently, my weekends were taken up by the Ct Renaissance Faire. Sorry, guys, but here's another chapter to try to make it up to you.

Siúil A Rún (Walk My Love)

* * *

Borean Tundra was a cold place. The frigid air caught in Nar'grin's throat, and caused his chest to tighten almost painfully. Two days into their trek to Wyrmrest, and the elderly orc was already starting to struggle.

Ahead at the front of the group, Torild was setting a steady pace. It was not fast, and under any other circumstances, even Nar'grin would have had an easy time keeping up, but the absolute iciness of this place sapped what little strength remained to him.

At least he was not the only one having difficulties. Indeed, the only one who was not tightly wrapped was Skya. Even Xephyra, who had been part of the Scourge, raised from death as a deathknight, had her cloak pulled snug around her shoulders. But the Forsaken woman wore her cloak loosely. She had her hood up, and a thick, long-sleeved woolen dress, but she took no extra measures against the weather. It was the first time Nar'grin had ever envied the undead.

Beside him, Aannu shivered, and adjusted the blanket she'd tied around Chomp's neck to keep him warm. Nar'grin watched her pat the raptor's head, and the beast gently nudged his mistress, leaning against her as they walked along.

A deep breath made him cough, and the cold made his old bones rattle. Nar'grin huddled a little deeper into his cloak. A blanket was suddenly wrapped around his shoulders, and he looked up to find Xephyra looking at him. He frowned.

"You are chilled," she said flatly. Nar'grin looked at her a moment, then turned his attention back to the road before him.

"I am fine," he muttered, not looking up. Xephyra picked up her pace until she had caught back up with Torild, ignoring Nar'grin's disapproving gaze on her back. No matter how hard he tried, the shaman simply could not get used to the deathknight. She brought back too many memories that he was not fond of, and even more painful, many that he was.

"We'll stop under those trees tonight," Torild decided, pointing to a copse of fur trees growing among rocky ground.

Xephyra looked at them intently for a long moment, and nodded.

"There is nothing of the Scourge there, at any rate," she sighed. Privately, Nar'grin wondered how she could know that if she was separated from the Lich King, but he said nothing. His doubts about her would be either proved, or disproved soon enough.

The trees kept out the higher winds, and the rocks stopped the low drafts that ran along the ground. It was not warm by any means, but once the fire was going brightly, it was bearable. The group ate in relative quiet, even talkative Aannu was silent. She tossed a chunk of raw meat to Chomp, who jumped into the air to catch it. The young troll hunter smiled at the raptor, and patted his head when he nudged her.

Nar'grin chewed quietly on a dragonfruit, thinking about Ahnka and the road ahead. He'd known it would be difficult – truth to tell, he'd thought he'd be making this journey alone, and had been expecting an even harder time –but it was well worth the risk. Ahnka needed him; he would not let her down.

As soon as the companions had finished eating, Torild pulled out a map again.

"We should be out of the Borean Tundra and into Dragonblight within the week. From there, it's another week to Wyrmrest. We'll have to fly the rest of the way to the Argent Vanguard. Queen Alexstraza the Life-Binder will surely give us aid, if not Ysera, or one of the bronze dragons there. We'll be safer on dragon-back from there to the Argent Vanguard than on foot."

"I thought you said flying was too dangerous," Skya frowned. "The frostwyrms…."

"Are not much to worry about when you ride a living dragon," Torild replied gently, smiling. "I would not trust our fate to any other creature with frostwyrms around, but the dragons of Wyrmrest have never let us down before."

"We still have to be careful," Xephyra sighed. "That black dragon, Nalice, is still at Wyrmrest, and the Obsidian Dragonshrine is practically right in the way. I know that Sarinar and Nalice both are on terms with Wyrmrest, but you said it yourself, Torild; they cannot be trusted."

"Still, it is the best way," Torild sighed. "We still have another two days to go after Wyrmrest." Here, she turned to the shaman. "I am sorry, Nar'grin. But there is no other road that I would advise you to take."

Nar'grin nodded gravely. He understood the dangers. A more risky route might be quicker, but what good would it do Ahnka if death were to find him only a league or two from the Citadel? She would still be at the mercy of the Scourge.

* * *

It was late, but Nar'grin could not sleep. His thoughts went back across the years, to a time when things were better, brighter, and more peaceful. He thought of Draenor, and the way it was before the Blood-pact. Ahnka had never been to her home world, and likely never would go there, but Nar'grin remembered what it used to be. He had met his mate there, long ago, in Nagrand. Together, they had raised their son in a small farm outside of Garadar. Life had been good in those days; Nar'grin himself had been young and strong back then, with a whole life ahead of him, a mate to love, and a child to raise. The Burning Legion had taken all that away from him. His mate had fallen in battle against the draenei in Shattrath, and later, his son had been captured by the humans of Azeroth, and imprisoned. Both he, and Ahnka's mother, had died there.

How clearly he remembered the day he received word of their capture. Ahnka had only been at most ten months old. Still too young to have known either of her parents, and too much of a burden to carry along on hunts. So the young couple had left their little baby with her grandfather, everyone thinking they would return soon.

Nar'grin had spent three hours playing with the little infant in his care. She had been utterly mesmerized by his graying beard, and pulled on it repeatedly. In the fourth hour, he put his tiny granddaughter to sleep for the night with a soft song of the old days. He had been preparing to lie down beside her when Drek'thar had come with news of his son and his mate. The two had, during their hunt, come too close to a human settlement. They'd been tracking a large deer, but when the humans came upon them, they were beset and overpowered, taken ancestors only knew where. All that was returned to Nar'grin was a scrap of cloth that his son's mate, a proud young female called Garaha, had always kept with her. It was Ahnka's sling.

The news had hit hard, but there was still hope, then. For the next year, Nar'grin waited. He took care of Ahnka, and it was likely the little orc baby that helped him through that year – indeed, she was what got him through finding his son's fate. The following winter, Thrall had come, and with him, Nar'grin's hopes had soared. It was not until Durnholde, some three years later that he learned the sad truth; he would never again see his son in this life. It had been a hard blow, but Ahnka's weight suspended from his chest had lessened the wounding.

And then had come the move west to Kalimdor. Little Ahnka had been fascinated by the ships that the orc soldiers – including Nar'grin – had stolen for the journey. Of course, he never told her they'd been taken without permission. His story had been that when the orcs went to procure ships, the people guarding the harbor had been kind enough to give them to the orcs. It was a harmless lie that kept the impressionable child from equating thievery with right.

In Orgrimmar, little Ahnka had flourished. The warm air meant she could be outside every day of the year; snow in Durotar was rare indeed, so even in the winter, while the city was being built, the children could be seen running around laughing.

After Orgrimmar had been built, age started to take its toll on Nar'grin. The next winter proved to be a rare one; it was cold, and for the first time, snow fell. Not much, but enough that the children were able to play in it for a few days. Ahnka had been at most seven at the time, and when Nar'grin had come down with the death cough*, the little orc had been beside herself. He had recovered, in time, which was more than could be said for most who contracted that particular illness. While it was not unheard of, many more died than survived – hence the grim name. All Ahnka had cared about was that her grandfather was not one of the unfortunate casualties.

As his little Frostwolf grew, Nar'grin had begun to weaken. Rheumatism had set in, followed quickly by weight loss, and slowly failing health. Over the next thirteen years, illness had come more often than it ever had, and his blood had begun to turn. At the time of the Scourge invasion, Nar'grin's circulation had been such that he needed warm furs even on the best of days. Winter, even in Durotar, was hard on him, and out here in Borean Tundra, the old shaman was freezing.

But then, most folk found it freezing cold here, so perhaps that wasn't such an indicator of his ill health. Didn't mean his health was any better than he believed, but it was a small comfort still.

Over to his left, Torild began to stir. She sat up slowly, and turned to regard him with her iridescent eyes.

"Can you not sleep, elder Nar'grin?" she asked quietly, her voice thick.

Nar'grin shook his head.

"My mind takes me to too many places tonight," he replied. "My time as a guardian, more specifically."

"Oh?"

A wistful smile flickered across the old orc's face.

"I had a mate, once," Nar'grin explained. "And a son. Roshak. His mother was my soul, and he was my world. Now, Ahnka is both."

The sadness that had crept into the shaman's voice was clear.

"What happened to her?" Torild asked. "Your mate."

For a long moment, Nar'grin did not answer. Then, slowly, he pulled in a deep breath.

"She died," he whispered. "Ara fell in battle when the Horde attacked Shattrath. I will never understand what it was that made Durotan see through the bloodlust and hatred. Were it not for his courage, many more orcs would still be imprisoned, even now, in the internment camps."

"It took great courage for the Frostwolf tribe to follow him," Torild said pointedly, a slight smile on her face.

Nargrin shook his head.

"It was no contest," he sighed. "I had a young son. For him to fall in glorious combat, bettering the future for his people is one thing; being slain by alien folk for the advancement of _one _power-hungry orc was quite another."

Torild nodded understandingly.

"When the Scourge attacked Quel'thalas, our people were shattered," she remembered. "Many chose to follow our prince, Kael'thas Sunstrider, to Outland, under the promise of permanent sources of arcane power to feed upon. Even then, if one was not blinded by desperation, you could see the madness growing in his eyes…"

"It must have been hard, to go against your own people," Nar'grin said with quiet sympathy. "What of your family?"

Here, Torild glanced at Xephyra, who slept soundly in her bedroll across the fire.

"My family fell that day. I do not know why Xephyra was raised and my parents not. Possibly, they were, and are now living in the Undercity among the Forsaken." The elven warrior snorted. "Wouldn't that be just the way of it," she sighed, shaking her head and smiling wryly.

Nar'grin wondered, looking at her now, if he could handle the possibility of such a thing happening to Ahnka.

* * *

It was dark, wherever the Spirit of Life had led him. He knew Ahnka was here; he could feel her all around him.

He was in some sort of cell. As his vision began to clear, he realized he must be seeing what Ahnka was seeing. He was on his hands and knees, on a cold – unbearably so – stone floor. Ice clung to the ceiling in some places, and had frozen in drips on the walls. His wrists – _Ahnka's _wrists – were a darker green, rubbed by some binding no longer in place.

Movement to his left caught Nar'grin's eye, and he turned to look. In a darkened corner, a larger figure huddled. The elderly shaman could not make out what the figure was, but it was certainly alive. Then it shifted again, and Nar'grin found himself staring into a pair of glowing, silvery eyes.

He thought the figure might have said something, but sound was indistinct, and he could not be sure.

Shaking his head, Nar'grin pulled back. He felt his own body return to him; he could feel the ground beneath him – almost warm in comparison to the floor of the cell – and even the quiet sounds of wild creatures in the early morning was loud in his ears.

But she was still alive, and that, at least, brought him some comfort. What worried him was the other figure in the cell. In that darkness, he could not tell what it had been. And yet, something suggested to him that whoever else was in that hell with his granddaughter was no threat. Indeed, the light in its eyes had been curious, almost concerned.

The others began to stir soon enough, and as the light of morning filtered in to their sheltered camp, Nar'grin put his concerns aside for the time being. Worrying about Ahnka's safety with whatever being had been in the cell with her would not help him get to her any faster.

Aannu was the first one up, and when she saw the old orc sitting there, she smiled sleepily at him around large tusks. Nar'gri returned the smile.

The young troll moved over to the fire, and began to rifle through the group's food supplies. She fished out a frying pan, and relit the fire.

"I make some nice bacon for our friends, ya t'ink?" she grinned, sifting through the foods for the boar meat. "Mebbe some raptor egg omelet, too…."

She began to hum an old troll song, smiling to herself as she threw the items mentioned into the pan.

Soon, their little stand of trees and rocks was filled with the pleasant scent of egg and roasted boar.

"Another thing to add to the list of ways you are useful, Aannu," Torild muttered thickly, smiling and rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"I made enough for everybody," the hunter offered, grinning widely. "Hope ya like it. I used some old Darkspear spices – from before my people left de Stranglet'orn."

"You remember that?" Skya asked, her head tilted to the side. Aannu nodded.

"Ya, mon," she replied. "I was young, but not _dat _young. I t'ink poor Vol'jin got seasick a few times on de voyage," Aannu added in a conspiratorial whisper. When she spoke again, it was more musing to herself, than talking to the others. "But den again, most everybody got sick sometimes. De storms way out on de sea were not always easy ta sail t'rough."

Torild nodded.

"I would imagine not," she agreed. "I've never been on a ship; airships and zeppelins, certainly, but not sailing vessels."

Aannu nodded.–

"Ya lucky, mon," she laughed. "You very lucky."

Nar'grin smiled privately. He recalled another promising young leader who had been quite queasy during the crossing from the Eastern Kingdoms to Kalimdor some fifteen years ago.

* * *

The first thing Ahnka was aware of was the cold. A deep, unnatural cold that tightened her throat and instilled a deep terror in her heart. It was almost as though the cold was a living entity. It sapped the strength from her limbs, and stole her will.

The second thing she was aware of was that the room was not entirely dark. A faint, blue glow emanated from the walls, which were made of black stone and glowing ice. She was bound, and the shackles around her were icy. When she raised her head, Ahnka found herself staring into a pair of eyes that flamed blue.

A deathknight.

Realization overwhelmed Ahnka, and she let out a roar of horror and despair. She'd failed. The assault on Angrathar had failed. She did not remember much of that battle, but she did recall Putress's betrayal. She remembered only too well how he had fooled her, and so many others, into aiding him in making the plague - he'd even had her test it on the Scourge.

What a moment that had been. Ahnka had been disgusted by the transforming of the Scourge into goo - it was a nasty process - but feral triumph had quickly replaced that. This new strain of plague, the Forsaken Blight, would destroy the Scourge, once and for all.

_"And you, you are unharmed?"_

At the time, she'd thought nothing of Middleton's words. Now, remembering the way he'd spoken - _you are unharmed? - _Ahnka could see all the signs of treachery she'd missed. She heard now, in her memory, the surprise in the Forsaken apothecary's voice that she hadn't before. In her excitement over the successful destruction of a host of Scourge, she had ignored all warning signs.

And Middleton hadn't been the only one. Every single Forsaken she'd come across in the process of helping Middleton had acted shifty and secretive.

_"Keep what you've seen and done to yourself. This work is all classified - information is given out on a need to know basis."_

Malefious's words rang like a death-knell in her head, and Ahnka realized her great folly. Dranosh Saurfang, Bolvar Fordragon, and so many others, had fallen because of the plague. Had she not been so caught up in her desire for vengeance, she would have noticed. If she'd only noticed - _said something! - _none of this would have happened. Disgust knotted her stomach; it was all her fault. She had not seen because she had been too caught up in her own ambitions.

All her hard work, the whole world's hard work, had been in vain. The Scourge would grow, and spill out over Northrend and the Eastern Kingdoms, and Kalimdor. Orgrimmar would fall, and with it, Nar'grin. Ahnka had sworn to keep the Scourge from hurting him ever again, and she'd failed utterly. Pride and selfishness had blinded her to what Middleton and Putress and Malefious were doing, and now that she did see, it was far, far too late.

A harsh, frozen slap stung Ahnka's cheek and ended her howl. The whole left side of her face slowly went numb from the icy metal of the deathknight's glove.

"You will not make a sound unless I allow it," the deathknight hissed, his raspy voice echoing hollowly around the room. He turned to walk toward a table to one side of the room. "Now," he continued. "I am sure you are wondering why you are here, orc."

The deathknight turned to look at her, a wicked smirk on his colorless face. Ahnka snarled, but said nothing. Just because she'd failed, that didn't mean she had to give up. If the deathknight wanted information, he would not get it.

As he came close, the deathknight glanced down at a long, razor-thin knife he held in one metal-clad hand. The blade was an icy blue material, as cold and dim as the walls around her.

Saronite. The tuskarrs had warned her of it; they called it the black blood of Yogg-Saron. Ahnka didn't know what it would do to her, but with a name and reputation like that, she didn't want anything to do with it.

Ahnka struggled as the deathknight came within arm's reach of her. She snarled and strained against her shackles, gnashing her teeth and baring her tusks.

"Now then," the deathknight hissed, his voice colder than the air around him. "You seem to be a very fortunate orc. Or, depending on how you look at it, very _un_fortunate." He laughed hollowly, and the sound echoed eerily around the room. Once the deathknight's laughter calmed, he began to circle Ahnka in a predatory manner, and the young orc snarled.

"You were right in the heart of the battle," the deathknight mused, moving around behind Ahnka, still fiddling with the saronite knife. "Ground zero for the plague dumped by those foolish traitors." He was in front of her now, and a little to the left. His white hair shimmered in the dim light as he paused, his eyes on the blade in his hand. "And yet, here you are, _alive. _Why is that?"

Brown eyes narrowed in hate, Ahkna spat directly into the deathknight's face. The colorless elven deathknight - blood elf or night elf, Ahnka did not know - froze for just a moment, and slowly wiped the saliva from his face.

Suddenly, the deathknight and the saronite blade were scarcely an inch from Ahnka's face.

"Do you know what the metal of this blade will do to you?" he growled. This close, Ahnka could feel his breath on her skin, and it was disturbingly icy; colder than the air around her. When she did not speak, the deathknight snarled, and spoke again. "Just _touching _this metal," he rasped, eyes narrowed, "will cause violent insanity and excruciating pain. Imagine what it would do if it _cut _into you..."

For over an hour, she was poked and prodded and interrogated. Through it all, Ahnka managed to keep her silence, proud and unbending. In time, the deathknight tired of her. She was unchained, and her body, exhausted, fell limply to the floor. Footsteps echoed on the frozen floor, and when a shadow fell over her, the young orc looked up.

The deathknight stared down at her with cold, empty eyes. Ahnka glowered back at him.

"It would seem our _guest _is being uncooperative," he sighed in his strange, unearthly voice. He signaled, and from the shadows emerged another deathknight - this one female - followed closely by two ghouls. "Take her to one the cells. A few days without food should make her more willing to speak with us."

The second deathknight motioned to the two ghouls, and the creatures came forward. They latched onto Ahnka with claw-like hands, and hauled her up. The ghouls stunk of death, and fear warred with defiance in her heart. But defiance won out, and she stood straight and tall as she was led away.

The ghouls brought her down several hallways, and past many dark doors. Some were clearly dungeon cells; Ahnka could hear the moaning and coughs of the poor souls held within.

Their journey ended in a dark hallway, deep within Icecrown - likely in the Forge of Souls, though Ahnka could not be sure. She'd only seen a few maps of the Citadel, and she could not recall which wings were where. A door, made of cold metal, stood before them. The deathknight produced some sort of key from a hidden place in her armor, and opened the door. The ghouls hurled her in. Ahnka hit the floor hard, and heard the door slam to and lock behind her.

As she lay there on the floor for a moment, Ahnka slowly came to understand that this was where she would die. Here, on the top of the world, far from home, friends, and family, she would die. It was a bleak realization. She was young - only nineteen summers; not yet of age among the orcish people - and until now had had a long life to look forward to. Now, she had no future whatsoever.

And yet, damning as the idea was, it gave her a sort of strength. She knew from what the deathknight had said to her that they did not know why she was immune to the Blight, but that it was important. It meant something to them; it had to. She, and whoever else had been immunized by their part in making the stuff, was a critical piece, with vital information. If she gave in, and told, it could mean disaster for all of Azeroth. That disaster might still come, whatever she did or said, but at least she would not be the reason. Ahnka had nothing left _but _her courage, and her pride. She would use both and keep silent, come what may.

Across the cell, something caught Ahnka's eye. In one dark corner, something moved, and the young rogue heard chains clinking. A pair of glowing silver eyes were suddenly hovering before her. She was not alone in this hole, then.

* * *

And that's the chapter. I probably won't update again until the others are all complete, so I can finally finish a story. Again, I apologize for the long timespan between updates.

Review, please!


End file.
